Not Chop, Slap
by Band8PGeek
Summary: “Slap, karate chop, what's the difference? Some kids still make out with a pillow.” Random little dialogueorientated but lengthy oneshots. Crack pairings inside. Dedicated to tootierulez.
1. 27½ Seconds of Kissy Stuff

_**Not Chop, Slap  
**_"_Slap, karate chop, what's the difference? Some kids still make out with a pillow." Random little dialogue-orientated (but lengthy) one-shots. May have slash in 'em. Dedicated to tootierulez. _

(claws her way up huge mountain) Must... conquer... writer's... block... yes! (springs up to the top of the mountain)  
OK, I think I figured out the cause of my writer's block, and I'm currently swallowing a potentially dangerous drug to prevent any more updates. (sees gasps of shock from audience) **Sheesh, just kidding, Geek fans! **I'm actually trying to attack the block at its center by eating a huge slab of Dairy Milk Chocolate. (When I eat chocolate I write better.)  
But for now, here are some totally random one-shots that are inspired by tootierulez's A Series of Random Events.  
Uh-huh, uh-huh.

Disclaimer: I don't own SpongeBob, Squidward, Patrick, Apteryx, Fancy Restaurant, or that factory cheese cake which doesn't gulp you up with a lick of a button like **some** of the others…

* * *

**Chapter 1: 27½ Seconds of Kissy Stuff**

It's not often that there's silence at the Krusty Krab; when there is, it's most likely only when NazKazMaz flies over the rusty moon. But there were only 3 occupants in that famous restaurant that day: SpongeBob, the poriferan optimist; Patrick, the gluttonous pedantic; and Squidward, the cephalopod irritant (13:78 he last smiled, I seem to recall).

Of course, when you combine that troublesome trio with the fact that 2-inch purple monkeys were plotting to stretch random-dom to the limit and that Goofy Goobers was suffering a low calcium intake, you know that can lead to some disturbing Cardboard City references in the ultimate of random conservations.

"You mean Random Con**v**er**s**ations."

I jumped, wondering where that voice had come from. SpongeBob? No, he was past due for his library book. Patrick? He was too Oops Upside His Head, if you catch my continental drift.

"Down here, you idiot!" the voice yelled again. Then, "OW!", as I accidentally stood on his tentacle trying to figure out what the heck was going on.

"Oh, hi, Squidward," I smiled, totally oblivious to the fact that I'd just amputated one of Squid's many arms. "What did I say?"

A growl emitted from one of his many broken teeth. "You said Random Con**s**er**v**ations! You meant Random Con**v**er**s**ations!"

"Well, somebody's gotta start talking about these things," I managed to say before climbing back into my inbox to feed the daft beggar who'd set up shop making robots.

It was at that point that Patrick decided to start my random dribble. "I wonder what she meant by him," he pondered whilst tucking into a Krabby Patty with chilli.

"I'm not too sure, Patrick," came a surprisingly high-pitched voice from the kitchen, "but maybe she's getting the Candy Man to kiss the Bubblegum Girl!" A close-up revealed it to be SpongeBob, trapped in a cage formed by a 50-foot spatula. Don't ask me how a 50-foot spatula could fit into the kitchen without Spat getting jealous of it; it was there, I had 3 hours to write Missing You, Pearl Krabs was fit to be tide, and **someone** had to do it!

Patrick clapped his tail-fins together randomly. "Oh boy, I love candy!"

"SpongeBob, grow up, will you?" By this time, Squidward had managed to stick his nose back on. "What kind of test is That?"

"'s a 399 test, which is more than you can say."

At that, everyone jumped to the height of the sun; they would have burnt up if it weren't for Mr Krabs's large mirror and a piece of cotton wool. Who had entered the Krusty Krab at **this** time of day? "What do you mean?" everyone said in unison.

"Well, you have to admit that Mars picked up Saturn on its orbit and sent it to the moon," our mystery guest continued. "It happened when Squidward employed the clown for the KK commercial and donned a blonde locks."

Squid blushed at the memory. That had **not** helped his chances at getting a ticket for the Boys Who Cry live tour on next century.

"Oh yes," SpongeBob piped up. "I gave you that raise 3 years ago."

"Yes sir," Patrick nodded upside down, "when I started doing your laundry." With that he leapt into the giant vampire coffin, and we didn't hear from him for the next 8 pieces of dialogue.

At about this time, our mystery guest had designed to remove his nose from the oven and drag himself out of the airing closet with a huge catalogue. "Oh, and do you remember the time KickButt premiered on VSD?"

"What's a VSD?" SB had never been cool in the ways of cephalopod technology.

"When DVDs and VHSs collide." Squidward's nose fell off again, as he rolled his eyes at the sheer obviousness of the statement.

Silence. A few choice folk song words paused on SpongeBob's tongue, in the form of nitric acid. A threat to eat them quickly forced them out again: "You can run but you can't hide when words collide."

"Oh yeah, I remember that one. Clean --- " here, Squidward paused for dramatic effect.  
"--- up – up --- " another pause.  
"--- you can run. That one."

Mystery Guest (hereafter abbreviated as MG) figured they should make an input before my crap writer's-block-lessened writing could get out of hand. "So, let me get this straight. While we're waiting for Jack the Bum to get back, do you wanna blow our buttchips and kick some roboboy butt?" According to Sandy, buttchips had been introduced in ukulele bottom some years back. They were good at stretching the budget of clothing cupboards and putting the "qwerty" back in "coral", but had lost their introductionary town the capital letters in their name in the form of a bill for Rocky and Bull… uh, bull…

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'winkle'."  
Bullwinkle then.

With a tug and a hump, Patrick managed to find his way out of the coffin with Wormy on his back. "No thanks," he replied in response to MG's question. "I'm allergic to everything green, and anyway---"

A tentative tentacle on the sensitive part of his green-and-pink shorts cut Patrick short of a huge existential moment. "Ah well, your loss," Squid whispered in… _that way that implies you're out of the closet. _"Now let's kiss." And with that, he placed a huge great smacker on the very edge of Pat's lips (and a little bit of tongue to boot).

After 27 and a half seconds of that kissy stuff, Patrick finally backed away for oxygen, heart pounding. He'd always figured that his butt had looked too big in the orange overcoat. Now that he knew the truth, well… his throat was dry. "uhh…ummm…" he stammered, trying to get vocabulary out that was understandable to cephalopod ears.  
(AN: wait. Octopi don't have ears, as such. OK then… understandable to cephalopod hearing devices? Does that work?)

"…Why?" Patrick asked eventually. "It's not as if the doorknob is stuck, I just wiped that table." Of course, by this time he had _completely forgotten _that Squidward had just forced him into a corner and kissed him senseless (and was now wearing a bikini… oooh la la!) But such is the nature of Patrick.

Meanwhile, during the kiss, SpongeBob and MG had conferred over King Kong and the taste of Spam. "I thought you hated that stuff," SpongeBob remarked, pointing to a pot of nail varnish.

"Nah," said MG, "she hates the stuffing outta you."

A blush turned yellow spongy surface into the colour of tomatoes. (AN: why do they say to-**mah**-toes up in America while it's to-**may**-toes in England? You say to-**mah**-toe, I say to-**may**-toe, I say hey guys cut me some slack here!) "Why thanks, I meant to steal the silver polish."

Of course, while all this was happening, I was sitting up in my bedroom at what seems like midnight on a Sunday morning (AN: no really, it's, like, midnight here) weaving my Hakuna Matata Magic on Missing You: Chapter 1. "I think I'm letting my toes do the typing," I muttered out loud. "Either that or my nose has been bitten off. Not sure which."

"Now drop and give me 20."

No, that was not me talking out loud again, that was MG in military get-up (while still managing to hide their identity… clever, huh?) Patrick, to the beat of a whip, had only managed to do 1 press-up so far. But he was getting on fast. "28, 26, 30, 21, 82," he counted as he attempted to do another 3.

"And what am I to do while I look for Thomas?" asked Squidward, still in the bikini and still just as noseless as ever (it had fallen off and on again 5 times during the course of the week).

Sponge shrugged; boredom-busting wasn't an issue to him. "You can chew on the cud and read about the rapist that got raped by a goat," he suggested, showing Squid a real-life magazine. Naturally, the headline was "Ripping People's Heads Off: Psycho Zombie Leader Breaks his Silence", in the totally random way that real-life magazines present them.

"Didn't I do that already?"  
An eyebrow rose rose rose. "No, Patrick, that's the official."

Talking of whom, Patrick had randomly completed his training 50 words back, and was now wearing a sack that postmen normally carry. "Well, that post won't grind itself. I'd best deliver the flour," he shrugged, waddling to the door of the Krusty Krab.

But before he could leave, Squid grabbed him by the eyelashes and pulled him back. "Oh, I remember now! A VSD is Squilliam Fancyson standing on tiptoes and tickling Mr Krabs under there."  
(and when MG said tickle, they **really **meant tickle. You could hear the two of them in Miami. And then in the supply closet, which is a lot closer to home.)

"Oh look, Sandy's back!" cried SpongeBob, pointing to the door (AN: I think I'm losing my writing ability with this thing.). "Hi, Tail! Have you seen your Golpe de Cultura today?"

"Oh poopdeck, you're right," rose a cry from Squidward's bikini, lying in the shape of a barrel organ on the floor from when Patrick had ripped it off (Squid said himself, he'd never need it again). "I'd better go search for it."

But, of course, in that strange way that fics work, it never got the chance to, for our mystery guest decided to reveal their true self in the form of…  
Gary!  
"Look, can we stop the delirium, please? I'm trying to kidnap you!" he shrieked in a totally unsnail like way. In the process, his shell fell off and hit SpongeBob in the eyes (that hurt like hell, I can tell you).

A shocked silence. As one could probably see, this group had a lot of questions to answer here: "how is it that Gary can talk" for one thing, "If you're Pumbaa then what Pumbaa is that Pumbaa" for another (as asked by Gary).

But, eventually, someone had to speak. In this case, I wrapped it up with one of my all time favourite sayings.

"I still like the part about the cuttlefish hypnotising Squidward out of his money."

"What are you talking about? That part of Angler Management hasn't premiered yet."

* * *

I think I suffered a brain relapse there… hopefully, this should not affect the quality of Missing You. Not by any stretch of the imagination.  
Band8PGeek. 


	2. A Puppy, A Pony, A Little Brother

Here it is: one very overdue chapter on one very random fan-fic. And I warn you - even though it might not be as random as before, it is still random.  
Oh, and for the record, I didn't write it at midnight like I did last time; in fact, this was written between the hours of three and five-thirty in the afternoon (GMT, that is). **

* * *

****Chapter 2: A Puppy, A Pony, A Little Brother**

It was a lovely summer day in Bikini Bottom (which was odd, considering it was December), and Squidward, cephalopod irritant, was getting testy. He only had so much time on his left foot, and between you and me, he was getting too _old _to cut his losses in the barnyard dance AND maybe get home in time for the world's biggest all-night-all-day P3K, on the same night as he was supposed to marry the mole without Rebecca knowing. So having to talk things over with eight of the six people he _really_ didn't like right now didn't exactly cool his composure.  
And believe me - no compromise for loss of composure. Especially round the eyes.

"OK, OK, before we finish this meeting, are there any questions?" Just after asking this, he proceeded to place very large earmuffs into his brain (extra protection, you understand.)

"What duck speaks for the shoes?"  
"SpongeBob could you fix my wedgie?"  
"Does anyone want to play jacks after dinner?"  
"What the hell's going down here?"  
"What's mistletoe used for?"  
"Who stole my wallet?"  
"I have a wedgie."  
"That's...not a question, Patrick."  
"Does anyone want to play jacks after dinner?"  
"What's the meaning of life besides 43?"  
"Do you have these pictures in my head?"  
"Which is better, the chicken or the kusco?"  
"Why do people on YouTube have such weird usernames?"  
"Who's to say? Does a peacock need all those feathers?"  
"Does anyone want to play jacks after dinner?"  
**"QUIET!" **

That last remark managed to shut everybody up (a mistake anyone can make). A very niggled Squidward managed to pull what was left of the earmuffs out of his ear socket.

"Fine. Since you **chowder heads** evidently haven't heard a single word I've SAID, I'll go over it again." Suddenly a mortar board appeared on the top of his head. And I don't mean the grad hat, I mean a mortar board. It squished him like a bug. "Look. Because of lack of wotsits on Band Geek's side of the spectrum, people are using bug-zappers to catch the barts, which is never good news, right?"  
…  
"That's your cue to say 'Correct, Mr Squidward.'"  
"Correct, Mr Squidward," recited everybody as if they'd heard the same incessant torture negative-30 times before.

"Said bug-zappers are affecting the oscillators in the dome's body, and once that dome's cracked, it could mean the end of the world. Which is why we have to take action to restore Fiore to its former glory, right?"  
"Correct, Mr Squidward."

"However, it's not going to be easy what with the Bob Spongee government on our non-existent tails. After all, you know what they say; People Order Our Patties, and I don't want Cassio to get together with Juliet; Ryby will be devastated. So I personally have come up with a fool-proof plan to remove the human yoyo."  
"Correct, Mr Squidward."  
Squid smiled. He must be dreamin'. It couldn't be **this** easy.

"So, here's what we'll do. SpongeBob, you act as a hobo and Maggie out trickin'; Krabs, the pet cemetery; Patrick, start chopping up that bananananananana…"  
(Squidward knew how to **start** spelling banana. He just didn't know when to **stop**.)  
"…and I'll balance that powder on my nose in that lake where the sexy teens were killed but aren't dead yet. This way, we can noun the classic verb without damaging our valuable ecosystem. Any questions?"

"Does anyone want to play jacks after dinner?"

At this, Patrick, gluttonous pedantic, exploded. **"SOME ****COMPETENT**** QUESTIONS!!"**

Poriferan optimist SpongeBob was peasantly surprised at this remark (and even more so at the fact that he was a peasant.) "You know the meaning of the word competent?"  
"I know the meaning of the word competent?" Evidently, Patrick was just as bewildered as the Simpsons comic book. "No **wonder** I was on the front cover of Entertainment Weekly."

"I've got a question, guv."

There. He'd told himself so. "What is it this time, Squilliam?"

Jumping at the chance for a speaking role, Squilliam (now forever given the label of unibrowed millionaire) stopped his legs from taking that sentence literally. "I didn't really want you to die in that last chapter. Can we bring you back?"  
Squid made some random choking noises before composing himself. "I **didn't **die in that last chapter. In fact, I had a prominent role in it."

"A bit _too _prominent, if you ask me," whispered Gary to himself. Yes. He'd had fun last chapter. But it wasn't enough. Once he'd gotten a taste of it he wanted more and more and more. Which reminds me, yes, he DID mind if Plankton's nephew kicked him in the belly. But they would see. Ooh yes. They'd get theirs.

But this is taking us away from Squilliam's speech to the kitten. "No no no, Squiddy, I distinctly remember you dying last time. It sez so right here in the transcript."  
Bemused, SpongeBob took the transcript of last chapter and scanned through it.

_A blush turned yellow spongy surface into the colour of tomatoes. (AN: why do they say to-__**mah**__-toes up in America while it's to-__**may**__-toes in England? You say to-__**mah**__-toe, I say to-__**may**__-toe, I say __lyke omg squid dyed dis point omfgz rofl rofl__) "Why thanks, I meant to steal the silver polish." _

"He does have a point, Squid. It **is **in the transcript."

For the first time in the whole chapter, Squidward's nose fell off. "SQUILLIAM, I'M UP HERE!! What would I be doing dying at the bottom of a well that wasn't even **here **yet?"

"Getting claustrophobic," listed Squilliam; "smiling, picking your nose, kicking the wall, having sex with--"  
"_**yyyyyyesIseeyourlogicthere.**_"

* * *

After a few more Q&A&S&T&F&U, the iPod meeting was officially drawn to a close. At the same time, Squidward dismissed his little parade of party-goers to do whatever it is they had to do (I'm for one not quite sure what it is yet myself). Somewhere along the line of exiting, SpongeBob and Squilliam ended up walking alone together, and it shalt remain this way untileth the end of the chapter. (Don't you just love odd numbers?) 

"Squilliam?"  
"Yeah, random nemesis?"  
"There's something that's always kinda been bugging me about you, and it's only just occurred to me to ask you to your face. Do you mind?"  
They stopped walking momentarily to hash it out. "Go ahead, square dude, it's what I'm here for."

"OK. Here goes nuffin'."

…  
…  
…

"What's a hadrosaur?"

…

For once in his short life, Squilliam was stuck for an answer to this. Maybe auditioning for a speaking role for Chapter 2 hadn't been the best idea after all. "Didn't Squidley play his clarinet to one of those?" he ad-libbed, hoping it'd throw the sponge off the scent.

His hope paid off (it gave a total of exactly 10 English dollars, give or take a few billion). "How do you mean? He didn't karate khop King Krabs for no good reason."

"That was a slap," a bemused Squilliam remarked as a reply. "**Not chop. Slap.**"  
**"Slap, karate chop, what's the difference? Some kids still make out with a pillow."  
**(The stupid reader here will read only the bold type and go back to the beginning. The smart reader here will read only the bold type and continue reading. The black cat here will read only the bold type and wear a calamari costume.)

"Oi, that's discrimination against us bald-heads."  
"What was that?"  
"Nothing."

Air cleared, they resumed walking. Where to they didn't quite know. And, of course, what really scared SpongeBob was the fact that there was nobody else around whatsoever. The city had already been cleared of its less-significant individuals in favour of leftover Simpsons DVD discs. (Too bad he didn't start searching through those; then maybe he could find my Simpsons Season Six fourth disc that has gone haywire in the Techno-Trousers.)

"Hey Squilliam, isn't it weird that everybody's gone and polluted the lake like this? It's like somebody suddenly dared to touch the register." He chuckled a bit to himself for his deduction. "I bet Swede couldn't deny that with both hands."

"You, uh, don't deny things with your hands."

"Never said you do. I said you could if you wanted to, but height restrictions don't allow you to ride the Cadwallader. Which is kinda weird, because I got caught up in a traffic jam of time-space continuums that led me to my future last night, and it told me that if I gave up comedy there would be a new law issued that banned bad stuff like bubble-poppers and brussel sprouts, so naturally I decided to quit, but then the future told me that the law had the condition that Christmas Who would sexually harass Every Villain Is Lumbago, so I had to go back and stop myself giving up comedy which was kinda awkward-"

"SpongeBob?"

"but it ended up taking, um, yes?"

"You're a nice kid. And you give me déjà vu. But for the love of god, shut up."

SpongeBob, however, couldn't resist one more go. "I appreciate your moral objection, Squilliam, but I'm just worried. Nervous talker. What if the aliens have already won? What if, in fact, **we're** the aliens and the government have obliterated us?" It slowly started to dawn on him, until he swatted It down again (he had no time for killer clowns). "Maybe...maybe our whole life is just one big vicious circle of---"  
_"Somebody throw the goddamn bomb."_

As that last word left a mysterious mouth, SpongeBob's own mouth was left with the strangest sensation of… what's the word? When you know for certain that something is happening that's happened before, but you can't quite place it?  
"Plagiarism?"  
No, that's not it. Something that you feel you've experienced before in this parallel universe.  
"Self plagiarism?"  
Yeah, that's the one.

He tried to talk, but the feeling persisted so, that it clogged his tongue down. Left 'im feeling hotter than a hipper-smoked sausage.  
Finally, the feeling went away, and it was only when looking back at Squilliam (who was now making noise a few metres away) that he realised that the feeling of self-plagiarism had come in from that fan-fic called "Shut Up".

"Squilliam? What was that?" he asked when he finally caught up to him.

"That was regulation. One crack pairing per chapter. (pant) Band Geek regulation."

SpongeBob drilled himself in the sinkhole. "Now that's just getting ridiculous, he doesn't have to shoot you now."

In response, he received a piece of paper which used to be part of the transcript of Can You Spare a Dime:

"The Krusty Krab Employee Manual; 2nd revised edition; page 35; section 19; clause 3a states: there must be at least one crack pairing in every chapter of Not Chop Slap until each pairing has been fully accounted for."  
**"**But that's not fair."  
"Clause 3b: The provider reserves the right to be unfair."  
"Teacher's pet."

"Touché, mah man. Touché."


	3. Echo, Echo, Echo, Guitar, Gecko

Warning: this chapter verges on the boundaries of cross-over at this point. In fact, I am considering moving it to the Cartoon X-over genre.

I will need advanced critique on this about how well I do Sandy's Texan lilt (I've never written for Sandy before, and since Sandy is a key character for Too Much Love Will Kill You, the help will be appreciated).

* * *

**Chapter 3: Echo, Echo, Echo, Guitar, Gecko…**

_It isn't fair.  
_That was the general feeling of the boat's three passengers as it drove its merry way along the city streets. It was this town. It had gone CRAZY. They shouldn't have to go on a road trip just because Mr Krabs was Chick Hicks in the Disney Character Claimer's Crew. (try saying **that **with a mouthful of mushroom marshmallows.)

"Wicmph Icmphs Mph Mehmph Mimphy Chermpher Climphmph Mph."  
"Not literally, Plankton; y'all get that out of ya mouth."

But still, they had nothing better to do. So Sandy, Plankton and Patrick had to go along with it, whether they had green teeth even in the most extreme circumstances or not.

"Now, as ah was sayin'," added Sandy, even though she was the first to speak in eleven minutes; "if ah were a squirrel-"  
"But you **are** a squirrel."  
"I said shut up, Plankton. If ah were a squirrel, ah would knit mah little sweater all day to keep me wahrm."  
"But you don't wear anything to do with sweaters. Plus, the name Flash is already taken."

That did it – next thing he knew, the activist mammal was growling dangerously close to the other side of his face. "_Pipe down, pipsqueak. _Ah was tryin' to tell the story of Abryham Linc'n."  
Now Plankton was **really **confused. "Why? I'm busy working on the formula, the driving is driver, and Patrick is asleep." He obviously hadn't noticed the gluttonous pedantic screaming _"I am a double boy!" _in his wake.

Sandy just ignored the microscopic megalomaniac ("What is it with Band Geek and giving the characters titles?" he muttered to himself) and continued with the story. "Anyway, the moral is, y'all should never milk a chicken."  
"Who?"  
"I dunno – ah just picked the one with the pretty colors."

Unfortunately, Patrick overheard this, and he wasn't best pleased. "NO EXCUSES!" he hissed. "You know how to eat, so **do it! **I need workers to build my stature!"  
"We're duhn trying, Patrick. But we're going to need better facilities!"  
"Then you'll **get **better vicinities."

A pause.

A long pause.

A very long pause.

A very very very very very very very very very very very very mushroom mushroom very very very very very very very very long pause.

"Patrick," Sandy muttered, "sometimes ya make about as much sense as rancid meat in a chockpile o' fresh veg'abols."

Patrick scoffed over the Airwing (Star Basil Brush couldn't get the smell out for weeks after that.) "Poppycock." (_Must resist urge to make sexual innuendo…_) "Everyone knows that Truman is a better president than Bush. Like in that restaurant long ago…"

"_Prosecution asks for Mr Eugene H Krabs to take the stand."  
_"_Run around run around run around run around. Choo choo! I'm a jellycopper!"  
_"_Mr Krabs, come back to the courtroom. __**With**__ the witness stand."  
_"_And while you're at it, for the love of god, put some clothes on."_

Plankton squeaked "Help me", and promptly fell off the car seat.  
"Ha! Ya see that?" Sandy laughed triumphantly. "That pieca bad gramma right there is what Truman brung to this country. I'm telling ya, Bush is the better president."  
"Sandy Sandy Sandy." Patrick stirred his head (he wasn't a big fan of Bond-style martinis). "Remember Matthew 21:17?"  
""There's gotta be a ducktape culprit"?" she pointed out.  
"… Um…yeah. But it tastes nice."

Sandy rolled her eyes. "Look, basically what ahm saying is, the torture room needs a teensy bit more fleadom."  
"Flea?!" **P**lankton **p**erked up at this **p**roclamation of **p**rospect anti-**p**erception. "I've got it!"  
"What, what is it?!"  
"Count the peas, add a pint of milk and divide what's left between you. The answer should be 7." (A/N: Try it – it really works!)  
_Actually, _thought Sandy, _I meant what he was duhn tryin' ta get at. Dang armadill._

"I'm glad you asked," Patrick answered for Plankton's benefit. ("It's all to do with focusing your mind on the question," as he said later in response to the question of mind-reading.) "I actually know a little story about fleas."  
Sandy scratched the little boil that had suddenly appeared on her tail. "If this is about how ah transport the little critter into mah treedome and we west a whole episode cryin' about it, we're **waaay** ahead of you."  
Plankton slapped his little knee. "We can advantage Bigger Fish later, Sandy," he shouted over her protests. "In the meantime, let's all sit back and let the flea do the talking…"

_Pokedum! Gotta pick 'em all! It's you picking me—_

"No, that's not it," muttered Plankton to himself as he sat on the coordinates.

"_And what about the hunger solution?  
_"_Well, my neck's there, use it." _

"Whoops! Don't know how **that **got there, heh heh."  
"Plankton, y'all are one nasty poivert."  
"Definitely not our dino."

"_I __**think**__ so, Brain, but as a member of the No More High School Musical Club I am forced to disagree. Narf."_

"Still not our story, but at least this one's a vegemartian."

_Christmas. The time of --  
_"Ah, here we go."  
_-- giving for some, taking for others, and hibernation for those sad saps who don't believe in the holiday spirit. But it was never happier (nor stranger) than for Cosmo, Wanda, baby Poof, Timmy Turner and Goofy. (Don't ask how the principal characters of Fairly Odd Parents ended up with Goofy; I can only say it had something to do with Jorgen, soap on a string and a chocolate-eating bell monkey named Wiki.) _

_The happiness was there as was. The strangeness started when Wanda looked at the Christmas lists._

_Timmy – VCube 1080, a date with Trixie, a giant hippo.  
__Wanda – money to pay the insurance company. _

"Uh, there's a big ol' fire in the kitchen, by the way, but ah'll just eat around it."  
"Hush up, Sandy."

_Poof – "goo." (Presumably he meant 'goo' in both senses of the word.)  
__Cosmo – cheese. And lots of it. _

_Needless to say, Wanda wasn't happy with the latter list; "as a matter of fact, there couldn't be a sillier idea."_

_Goofy – "I want a flea." _

"_I stand corrected, Cosmo. Goofy's just had a far sillier idea."  
_"_Yay! Numbers!"_

"OK, whoa, hold up," interrupted Patrick. "What did that have to do with the price of cheese?"  
Plankton shrugged.  
Then he shrugged again as he realized he genuinely didn't know the answer.

* * *

"Did you feel a disturbance in the shrugging continuum, Gary?"

"Meow."

"What do you mean it was your fault?"

"Meow."

"Gary, what did you DO?!"

"Honey…I blew up Bin Laden."

* * *

It took another five hours for Sora to stop crying the world over but mostly America (why he couldn't burp for himself we'll never know). So in the meantime, Patrick attempted to amuse what little smoke he had by making a color palette for an art meme.

"Let's see, what does this red? 'Draaaaw your kah...ka-ka-**karector** in a re…la…tonship with Zak Efron?'" Patrick struggled to read the fifth question of the meme.  
Then, "Oooh, I know! Asdfghjkl!" he cried, sketching a giant picture of a paper airplane. With that, he sat back and tried to fix his larryplz smile while sleeping.

Plankton and Sandy, raison d'être, were collecting stats. "Plankton, hav y'all noticed sumthink stinky stinky drag 'bout this whole set-up?"  
"You mean, like is raison d'être an appropriate adjective?" Plankton sighed heavily. "Look, Sandy, let's be serious about this. They're too big for him, they're getting scruffy as hell… I mean, just, cheese, shoe, top bun, in that order."  
"No, silly," she giggled. "I mean, the **other** thing we do for fun."

Her intrusions were met with a blank stare. This wasn't so hard for Plankton; the problem was making sure his mouth wasn't singing "Little Engines" in the process.

Sandy tried again. "What we do for fun in Not Chop Slap."  
Blank stare.

"In this chapter."  
Blank stare.

"For fun."  
Blank stare.

"Nicholas Johnson."  
Still blank stare.

Frustrated, she grabbed the collar of his antennae. "In the back of the boat, y'all…" she purred seductively. (For some reason, she wasn't wearing her pressure suit anymore. In fact, from her perspective she wasn't wearing anything. And if she was, she'd goomba it on the noggin soon anyway.)

Sensing that she would talk about sex on a kid's show, Plankton squirmed away as quick as he could. You could tell he hadn't done a Band Geek fan-fic before. He stunk of not knowing what to expect. Of that, and of chilli-dog on a bad day. "Whoa, kiddo," he cried. "I know the briefing said crack pairing, but isn't this going a touch **too**far? After all, I am the ignorant gunpowder."

Ignoring him, Sandy sighed and stared out the window. "I wonder if we could have a fancy waht weddin' one day. Just like in the Disney Princess movies. Fairy princess dresses…" she drooled.  
"OK, now you're just out-of-character."  
"Gawsh, purposes of the narrative, Planky. Now shut up and marry me."  
"Um, all right then," gritted Plankton, jumping maniacally on the Beryl Button. (Star Stories parody of Boy George, don't fail him now.)

Patrick finally decided to join in the narrative again after 1,881 characters (including spaces). "I had a dream last night."  
"Uh, doesn't every'un, Patrick?" Sandy looked somewhat bemused. Plankton just looked.  
"Does everyone have dreams of MermaidMan and BarnacleBoy making out?"  
Strangely enough, after saying that, everybody (including the author) suffered a bout of old-people sickness. Namely, being sick of old people. There's a word for that, y'know: oldpeoplemakingoutphobia. Very common. A bit like someone standing up half-dressed.

Finally, Patrick snapped into three pieces. "_**Band Geek, for the love of god, can't you just admit that there's nothing for this chapter?! 3:14 GMT!**_"

I descended from the rooftops of the boat. "Hey, Chapter 2 was a tough act to follow! Squilliam-x-SpongeBob romance – you can't top it! You can't! I'm outta the business! And it's your fault, Patrick! You ruined me!"  
Patrick turned away. "That hurts, Band. That…really hurts."  
"There, there," Sandy patted him on the belly. "Don't you say anythink. Y'all done enough."

"Hang on there, bottom-dwellers." Plankton crusaded to the top of the boat wearing a make-shift hobby horse. ("Ah can't wait until we get some real horsies," muttered Sandy. "Dayam spendin' cups.") "I think I can salvage what is left of it with a little song I learnt over the radio."  
"Ooh, a story!" I smiled. "Can I play? I'm an expert at the linen drying, so I know how to screw in a kitchen--"  
"Get back to your cauldron, compadre."  
I growled at this knock to Pratchett. "That's **Wyrd Sister!**" I screamed as I involuntarily got sucked away.  
"And there goes Theodore."

Glad of the privacy, Plankton cleared his throat, ready to begin. (_Ooh, he's so shiny, _thought the boat.) "Anyway, it goes a little bit like this:

_They allowed me to speak to the fairies  
In the big pantomime song;  
When Squill showed his new shoes to Squid  
__He found his shoes were gone;  
__Mama said be cool,  
__Or she'll take you for a fool;  
__When Santa got stuck up a chimney  
__Atchoo atchoo atchoo._

And that's what happened."

Sandy had to think about this for a moment. _Hmm…25… _"I see your problem."  
"Maybe I should go to paw school," Plankton pondered, looking at his hand.

Unfortunately, it was only now that the driver decided to halt the boat and turn around. (Two secret identities in one fan-fic. Has to be a world record. Now where have you heard that before?) "If the three of you do not **stop this chapter **back there," hissed Squilliam, unibrowed millionaire (for it was him), "I will turn this formation around, and we'll go back home, and there'll be no Camp Wannahockaloogie for **ANYBODY!!**"  
Saddened, the trio sunk back into their seats, planning to remain silent.

Squilliam turned on the radio. "Finally, a little war and quiet," he muttered, switching to his favorite radio station.  
But alas, luck wasn't on his side today. "_Twinkle Twinkle Patrick Star! I made myself a sandwich, my mommy named it Fred--_"  
"THAT'S IT! Back to Conch Street!!"

**

* * *

**

Before we leave, a Not Chop Slap Car Tune Short.

Squidward interrupted the end of the chapter with his wig case. And he wasn't very happy.

"Buster, it may come as a complete surprise to you that this is a Not Chop Slap chapter. And in Not Chop Slap chapters, my nose falls off. Yet, lo behold, it hasn't fallen off in the entire chapter. And in all the years I --"  
I decided to shut him up with an anvil to the cranium.

Squidward's nose fell off in the end.


End file.
